


In Rivers of Blood

by ella_minnow



Series: King's Own [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ella_minnow/pseuds/ella_minnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Assaye had been a close-run thing.  The day was all but lost in a stupendous massacre under its walls.  It was won in rivers of blood." - Elizabeth Longford, <i>Wellington</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In Rivers of Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [ lmno @ livejournal](http://ella-minnow.livejournal.com/13122.html#cutid1) on 27/07/2003. Thank you to oneangrykate for the beta.

_Assaye  
India, 1803_

Assaye was won, its gates thrown open. British troops streamed back and forth through them in a writhing mass of humanity, largely ignoring any efforts made by officers to impose order and discipline. Following tradition as old as England, as old as war itself, the soldiers looted and burnt and ravaged; it was the prize for victory, exacted at the expense of the defeated. The lucky Maharatta troops had escaped, fled into the country, before the city fell. Those unlucky men that remained did not fare well. They were seized by the British army, by then little more than a uniformed mob, and savaged. More than tradition, than looting, it was an act of revenge for the many red-coated soldiers who had been killed or wounded in the advance.

Wellesley had won, against all the odds, but not without a price. The ground between the British camp and the city was strewn with the bodies of men and horses. The surgeon's tent was a charnel house, filled to overflowing with those wounded who had managed to stumble or be carried back from the bloody ground before Assaye's walls.

Dom flinched back from the outreaching hand of a soldier lying just inside the tent's door, the yellow facings on his gunpowder-charred coat declaring him not-of-the-74th and so not-of-Dom's-concern. Dom stepped around him, hurried on, intent upon his goal.

Dom had asked around, once the guns had finally ceased, and been told that there _was_ no 74th to rejoin. The regiment was dead and gone and no one was entirely sure exactly who Dom was supposed to report to or where he was supposed to go. At a loss, he'd reclaimed his pack and bedroll from the baggage carts, trying very hard not to look at large of pile of packs emblazoned with the crest of the 74th that remained, and began asking a new question.

Boyd.

Somewhere in this tent, the wounded Scottish Lieutenant lay. Until he was otherwise notified, Dom figured it was to the Lieutenant that he belonged and so, here he was. Looking for Boyd among the wounded, the dying, of the Battle of Assaye.

One of the surgeons, his distinctive black-plumed hat long gone but marked in his trade by the rough, stained apron he wore over his uniform and arms that were red to the elbows with blood, knocked into Dom on his way by. Dom quickly reached out and grabbed the man's upper arm, stopping him in his tracks.

"Let go of me," the doctor snarled at Dom, shaking himself loose.

Undaunted, Dom grabbed him again, keeping him from rushing off. "Lieutenant Boyd of the 74th. Where is he?"

Shaking Dom's hand loose a second time, the man pointed vaguely towards the back of the tent then hurried away. Dom let him go, content with having a general direction.

It was quieter at the back of the tent, calmer. These were the first of the wounded, men who had been brought in hours ago, treated, and had now been left to pull through or die on their own as the surgeons turned their attention to the steady stream of new arrivals coming into through the front of the tent. Here and there, volunteers made the rounds with jugs and ladles, bringing water to those of the men conscious enough to swallow. Mostly women, they were the wives and mistresses and daughters of soldiers and each of them dreaded the day when they would come across the mutilated forms of their loved ones among the reams of wounded.

Dom carefully threaded his way through the maze of pallets on the floor, eyes scanning each briefly before moving on. He systematically picked his way back, looking for the white facings and dark, blue-threaded tartan that would set Boyd apart from the rest of the men.

There.

Dom had almost missed the pallet tucked against the very back wall of the tent, a little away from the others. His view of it had been obstructed by the man -- tall and blond with a captain's epaulettes -- crouching beside it. It was only when the man rose to his feet that Dom glimpsed the prone form of his Lieutenant.

Dom moved quickly over to the semi-secluded corner, coming up to the captain's side just in time to hear him say, "Don't worry, Boyd. We'll have you out of here and settled in your own tent by this tonight." He spoke with easy familiarity, his voice steady and reassuring. Neither he nor Boyd had noticed Dom yet. "I know Lady Catherine will want to reassure herself of your wellbeing in person as soon as possible. May I bring her around in the next couple of days?"

Boyd, despite the pain clear on his face, smiled. "I wouldn't dream of turning Lady Catherine away, even if she'd let me," he replied.

"Good. I-" The captain stopped as he suddenly noticed Dom's presence. He turned, slightly, to face the private and Dom saw for the first time that the officer's uniform also had white facings and bore the insignia of the 74th, marking him a commander in Dom's own regiment. The open familiarity of a moment before vanished with startling speed as he became aware of the presence of a third person. Dom quickly snapped to attention, eyes flickering over to focus on a spot on the tent wall just over the captain's shoulder as he saluted.

"Private," the captain acknowledged stiffly before turning back to Boyd. "I'll arrange your transfer to a more comfortable setting immediately," he said briskly. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away.

Uncertain, Dom continued to stand at attention until Boyd muttered a hoarse, "At ease."

Noticing the way Boyd had to angle his head to look up at him, Dom dropped into a crouch, filling the place so recently left vacant by the captain. The strain on Boyd's face lessened a little when he no longer had to crane to see the younger man. As the Lieutenant seemed to gather his energy to speak, Dom quickly looked him over, taking account of Boyd's appearance. He was wearing only his billowing, blood-stained undershirt and kilt, his uniform jacket having been removed and rolled up to make a pillow beneath his head. Through the burnt-edged bullet hole in the shirt, Dom could see the white folds of a bandage. Somewhere along the way, someone had wiped Boyd's face mostly clean, but dark smudges of gunsmoke lingered here and there and his hands and arms were still blackened and bloody. The angry red burn that ran along his right cheekbone was accentuated by the deep lines that bracketed his mouth and webbed out from his eyes, a telling sign of the pain he was in.

"Monaghan," he said, a clipped greeting.

"Sir," Dom responded.

"What are you doing here?"

"I...didn't know where else to go."

That simple phrase, so plainly stated, served to remind Boyd of the fate of his regiment and a new sort of pain was suddenly visible on his face. "Are they-"

Boyd's voice cut off and his hands twitched in an abortive effort to clutch at his side as his breath hitched with pain. After a long moment, during which Dom hovered, uncertain and helpless, the spasm passed and he relaxed back against the pallet, taking a deep breath before starting again. "Are they all dead?"

Dom frowned, looked away. "I...I don't know exactly."

Boyd nodded, face grave. A long silence stretched between the two men as Boyd looked away, becoming lost in his thoughts while Dom watched, warily, for signs of the onset of another spasm of pain. Then Boyd gave a little shake of his head and looked back to meet Dom's gaze. "I'm going to be taken to my own tent later this evening. Captain Bean is arranging it," he said.

Dom nodded rather than admitting that he'd overheard -- eavesdropped? -- on the conversation between the two officers.

"Ask around, see what you can find out about the lads then report back to me, later, once I'm settled in."

Dom nodded again, the unpleasant feeling of being lost beginning to fade in the face of having a solid task set out for him, unhappy though the task may be. He hitched the straps of his pack and made to stand when he was stopped by a hand against his forearm. Boyd's gaze was steady, piercing, for all that the act of reaching out had clearly drained him.

"It was you, wasn't it? That helped me back."

Dom, suddenly embarrassed, felt a flush climbing up his neck and turning his ears red. He wanted to look away but, instead, continued to meet the direct green eyes and nodded, once, sharply.

Boyd nodded, too, slower, considering. "Aye. I thought so. Thank you."

Not sure how to reply, Dom continued himself with nodding again, non-committal, and rising to his feet. "This evening," he said as he stood, then stepped aside to make room for one of the women with water jugs. He lingered a moment longer, watching as she bent over the Lieutenant and spooned small mouthfuls of water between his lips, then turned and walked away, as wordlessly and briskly as the captain had before him.

*

The bench outside of Wellesley's tent was hard and too narrow, its surface pitted with nobby knots and flaws, most of which, Dom was certain, were concentrated along his own length of the bench. He shifted for about the dozenth time, trying very hard not to bump the men who sat on either side of him as he redistributed his weight. His new position was little better as the sharp edge of the eight odd inch wide bench was now pinching at the skin on the back of his thighs, but he didn't shift again, reluctant to risk inciting his bench mates by fidgeting. They, like him, had been waiting for quite some time to see Wellesley's clerk in the hopes that the man would be able to tell them something about the fates of their regiments or battalions or commanding officers.

"Dommie!"

Dom looked up, startled to hear his name called out. At the sight of Bloom jogging towards him in a ground-eating lope, his pack banging an awkward counter-rhythm against his back as he ran, Dom stood, smiling a genuinely relieved smile. He'd been worried about Bloom, having seen neither hide nor hair of the man since he'd disappeared into the man-made fog while retreating from the devastated squirmishing square.

The greeting that hovered on Dom's lips was lost in the exhalation of breath forced from his lungs as Bloom slammed into him, pulling him into a rough hug.

"Jesus, Dommie, I though you were dead. I looked back and you weren't following and I thought those bastards had picked you off for sure." Bloom's filthy face was split by a wide smile as he pulled back, clapping Dom on the shoulder hard as he did so.

"No. Lieutenant Boyd was shot. I was helping him back. It slowed me down."

Bloom's eyebrows shot up and he gave a low whistle. "You went back for Boyd?"

Dom felt a blush crawl up his neck and over the edge of his jaw, but, mercifully, Bloom let the subject drop. "What're you doing hanging around Wellesley's tent, then?"

"I'm waiting to ask the clerk about the 74th. The casualty roles were delivered about an hour ago," Dom explained. Then, with a shrug, added, "Boyd asked me to find out."

"Monaghan? Inquiring about the 74th?"

Dom turned at the sound of his name to see that the soldiers ahead of him on the bench were gone and a clerk -- not _the_ clerk, not Wellesley's personal book keeper, but a clerk to the clerk -- was standing at the open flap of the tent.

Bloom clapped Dom on the shoulder and said, "I'll find you later."

Dom nodded in acknowledgement, but Bloom was already walking away and didn't see.

"Monaghan?"

"Here, sir." Dom hurried over, adopting what he hoped was an appropriately contrite expression as the clerk glared sourly at him for the delay.

"You were inquiring about the 74th?"

"Yes, sir."

The clerk looked down at the sheaf of papers he held in his hands and, in a dispassionate voice, read out, "Of the five hundred and forty-eight men in the 74th, three hundred and seventy-two were killed, one hundred and twelve were wounded but still live, and twenty-eight are still unaccounted for."

It was too much, far more than Dom could comprehend. The numbers were too high. Three hundred and seventy-two dead? Dom hadn't even met more than fifty, maybe a hundred of the men in his new regiment in the week leading up to Assaye, and now three times that were dead? That the number would be greater by morning, by the end of the week. Most of the wounded wouldn't survive. Dom knew, couldn't help but knowing, that a man who came back from a battle wounded might as well not come back at all, so poor were his chances.

"What-" Dom's voice gave out on him, lost in a flood of emotion, and he had to clear his throat a couple of times before he could continue. The clerk watched him collect himself with thinly veiled impatience. "What is going to happen to the regiment?"

"That has yet to be determined." Patience at an end, the clerk turned his attention to the men still sitting on the bench, waiting their turn. "Wolf?"

Recognising the dismissal, Dom backed up a few steps, then turned and broke into a run. He barely made it around the corner of the nearest tent before falling to his knees and throwing up the breakfast he'd eaten hours, years, ago in the pre-dawn before the battle.

*

Dom tried to be quiet as he slipped into Boyd's tent in case he was sleeping, but the Lieutenant was awake. He was lying propped up against a couple of pillows in his cot, facing the door. Waiting. He didn't bother with even the barest of pleasantries, but instead ground out a question.

"How many?"

For a moment, Dom was tempted to pretend he didn't know what Boyd was asking. He wanted, desperately, to be anywhere but at the foot of Boyd's cot, preparing to tell him that the his regiment, his friends, were gone.

Swallowing hard, the taste of bile still strong at the back of his tongue, Dom tamped down the cowardly urge to delay.

"Most of them, sir. Almost all of them."

Boyd winced, visibly wilting back against his pillows at the words that hadn't, that _couldn't_ , have come as a surprise. He had to have known it was bad, he'd been there to the end, but having it confirmed seemed to have killed a wild hope that he'd been harbouring against all reason.

Dom watched in silence -- there was nothing else to say -- as Boyd grit his teeth uselessly against the tears that were already falling steadily down his cheeks.

End.


End file.
